The Perfect Circle
by King Nerd
Summary: A story of how a band kid can change over the years in marching band.


**So my English teacher this year is really into creative writing, and one of our assignments was to write a vignette paper, which is basically a series of snapshots all relating to the same thing. I, of course, wrote about marching band- each snapshot comes from one year of my marching experience, starting from seventh grade up through my junior year. I switched around some names and genders so that the names fit with the group of band kids I've written about previously.**

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Why were high schoolers so intimidating? They were all so tall, they all knew what they were doing, they all knew how to play their instruments well, and they all knew each other. The group of us standing together in a corner, however- Sophie, Willow, Paige, Abby, and myself- we had none of these things. We were in seventh grade, and Ms. Hawes had let us join the high school marching band to get numbers up in the group, so here we were, in the High School Band Room, on a hot August day, about to begin our first day of Marching Band Camp, and we were scared to death.

The chairs in the band room were arranged in a large circle, so we all sat down together so we could be sure we wouldn't have to sit alone. We chose the back corner, farthest away from the door to hopefully avoid being noticed.

"Hi guys!" someone said to us. She was short, with unruly blonde hair and a face I would not necessarily deem friendly. I kind of recognized her, because she was in my older sister Jasmine's grade, but I didn't know her yet. I was fairly sure at that point that her name was Krystal. There were a few other band people with her, and I recognized none of them.

"Who are these kids?" one of the mysterious band kids accompanying Krystal asked.

"Oh," the girl I thought was Krystal said, "this is Mike's sister, Libby's sister, Mike's sister, Gabby's sister, and Jasmine's sister," and pointed to each of us in turn. Were we supposed to tell our names at this point? None of us seventh graders were familiar with Band Kid Introduction Rituals- did we tell our names or did we just accept the fact we were going to be known only by our older siblings?

The band kids with Krystal nodded, as if "Jasmine's sister" was a viable introduction of a new kid in their band. We didn't have names, just knowing our older siblings was enough apparently. The older band kids walked away, their duty done. They had "gotten to know" the newbies of the group, now they could go socialize in their strange band ways with the others.

He was making us run. This wasn't the army. This wasn't gym class. I chose band over volleyball; I wasn't supposed to spend this week running. Yet the new band teacher, the bearded Mr. Rapson, was making us run. Not really earning a lot of brownie points right off the bat on this first day of eighth grade band camp.

"You never said anything about running," Katie panted next to me as we both pretended to run.

"We never ran before," I answered. Only some of us in our grade had marched last year under Ms. Hawes, so we were like upperclassman, like gods, the endless pools of knowledge in our grade. We were people who knew what they were doing but weren't intimidating like the older kids. And, this also meant since we knew what we were doing, we were going to be better than everyone else in our grade.

After stretches (Another new thing! We never stretched before at band camp in seventh grade!), we began doing Basic Marching 101.

"We'll start with attention," Mr. Rapson said. "You're all going to want to stand like this, feet together, hands in fists by your sides, not moving." We all mimicked his stance. "The command to get here is 'Band, atten hut."

No it's not. What did he think he was talking about? The correct command is 'Detail, Atten Hut.' I have a good memory, and I was certain that last year we never said 'band' in any command.

"Did you guys do different commands than this last year?" our teacher asked the upperclassmen in the front of the block.

They all proceeded to explain the right way of commanding, the way we had learned last year. Then one of them said, "But it's ok if you have a different way of commanding. We've had to learn a new way every two years already."

It was not okay to learn a new way. I liked the way we did it before. I knew the way we did it before. I wouldn't be better than everyone else in my grade if he changed what we were doing.

One of the upperclassmen in the front raised their hand. "Do you still do march offs?"

Mr. Rapson grinned. "Of course."  
Maybe Mr. Rapson wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Band, Atten Hut!" I snapped to attention, one of the few left responding to commands. We were in a march off, one of my favorite parts of marching band. Mr. Rapson would give us commands, and the band would execute the marching commands. As soon as you messed up, you were out. The last band kid standing was the best marcher in the band.

And it was my time to win.

"Forward, march. Left flank move. Right flank move. Backward, march. Forward, march. Left hace move." In those six commands, nearly every band kid left marching had messed up and was now reluctantly making their way to the sideline to join the others who would not make it to the end of the march off. The last command, the hace, was especially tricky. A hace is a turn we do while standing still, so if he gives the command while marching, you continue marching as if he had not given the command; nearly everyone turns when he says that, however.

It was down to Gabe, who was a senior trumpet player, Robert, who was a junior trumpet player, and me. A freshmen. I was in the top three with two upperclassman with way more experience and way more marching skill than I could dream of.

"Ready, halt," commanded Mr. Rapson, and the three of us stopped together. Out of both exhilaration and absolute terror, my heart was thumping in my chest louder than a bass drum, so loud I was sure I would get called out for it.

"What do we have here," Mr. Rapson said. "Two seniors and a computer." I almost grinned, but I was at attention, so my face remained blank. I was kind of a know-it-all when it came to marching band and memorizing our charts, so I earned the nickname " " because I was his computer on the field.

"Left hace move." We all turned, and Gabe promptly roared in frustration. He had turned right- a foolish mistake so close to the end.

The final two.

I had never made it this far in a march off. I had longed for this moment ever since I had joined marching band two years ago in seventh grade. From that first march off under Ms. Hawes when I wasn't the first one knocked out even though I was definitely the worst marcher in the band, I had felt an irresistible pull to be that last person standing, to be the one who remains when all else had failed, to win a march off. And now I was _so close._

Mr. Rapson began hitting the drumsticks together again, a new tempo this time. A much faster tempo.

"Forward march. Left flank move. Right flank move. To the rear move. Backwards march. Forwards march. Backwards march." Mr. Rapson was saying the commands so fast he barely finished one before he started the next. "Forwards march. Left flank move. Left flank move. Right flank move. Left hace move. Right flank move."

Robert had turned on the hace command. I continued marching forward as he threw himself down onto the ground, utterly disgusted with himself.

"Ready, halt," Mr. Rapson commanded.

"Step and close," I answered. The only voice.

I had done it. I had won the march off. The very thing I had yearned for since seventh grade, the goal I had come so close to before but never achieved. I had done it.

In that moment, I truly fell in love, and it had nothing to do with guys. I was in love with the feeling of true exhilaration, of march offs, of marching band in general, and I knew I never wanted it to end.

"Okay, find the next chart and sit down," Mr. Rapson ordered into the mic. It was Day Two of Band Camp, and we were charting, one of my absolute favorite things. I loved getting to pull out my three ring binder that held all of our charts, analyzing the formations that the diagrams held, finding my spot on the real football field that correlated with the spot on the paper, and helping my section find theirs. Or at least, I did love it.

For some reason though, one fateful afternoon last June, I had gotten up and walked into Mr. Rapson's office with a few other students and said that I was going to try out for the position of Drum Major. In every way, it had seemed like a perfect plan. The Drum Major was the best marcher in the band- I had already proven myself in the march off that previous fall. The Drum Major had to be the student who knew the most about music- I had been living and breathing music since forever. The Drum Major had to be willing to put in extra work for the band- I loved band and would do anything for it. The Drum Major had to lead the band- I had always been one of the people looked to for leadership in many different situations before. Most of all, the Drum Major had to be a total band geek- I totally fit the bill.

What I failed to realize in auditioning for the glorious position of Drum Major was that it wasn't all glory and salutes and waving my arms around while standing on a podium. There were also moments like this: me standing on the sidelines and watching while my friends got to do one of my favorite things. The Drum Major, since we did not march on the field, does not participate in charting with the rest of the band. We help paint people's spots on the grass and help teach the younger kids how to find their spots. I had willingly given one of my favorite things up. I had chosen to be standing on the sideline right now, holding a dot book and a can of spray paint instead of being out there with the other members of the band. There was no one to blame but me. Here I was, a sophomore, with three more long years of watching from the sidelines in store.

"Tori?" someone asked, bringing me out of my pessimistic thought train.

"Yes?" I said, instantly putting a smile on my face out of habit. It was one of the eighth graders, a newbie to the group that year.

"Can you help me find my spot? I don't get these chart thingies," she asked. My smile became real instead of one placed by habit.

"Of course!" I said, leaning over her dot book with her and then accompanying her onto the field, helping guide her to finding her spot amidst my favorite people in the world and as I did so, I couldn't help but think, that if I hadn't been Drum Major, I would probably never have even spoken to this eighth grader who would have lived on the other side of the band from me- and I definitely wouldn't have been able to help her learn how to do the very thing I love.

"George?" a woman said, approaching me and Mr. Rapson. My favorite teacher handed me the microphone he was holding.

"All right, you're in charge, accomplish stuff, I'll be back soon," he said, and turned his attention to the woman. She was a state inspector. Apparently, when you take fifty kids to a camp four hours away for a week, you need to be inspected by the state. So while Mr. Rapson got to deal with that fun stuff, I got to lead rehearsal.

I stuck the microphone in the pocket of my shorts and ascended the ladder. Upon reaching the top, I climbed out on the platform of the scaffolding and stopped for a second to survey the band laying on the ground below me. Just a couple years ago, I had been one of those band kids laying there on the ground, not a care in the world, just having the time of my life at Band Camp, and now, here I was, standing on top of scaffolding with a microphone, about to lead rehearsal again.

I settled myself on the stool Mr. Rapson had up there, propped my dot book full of Star Wars themed charts up on the railing next to me, and switched on the microphone.

"Ten… nine…" I began counting. The band let out groans of varying intensity and all grudgingly got to their feet and headed to their spots. "Eight… seven… six… five… four.. Three… two… one, Band, Atten Hut!"

The group of forty-something kids below me all snapped to attention. The sun was beating down right in my face, but I didn't mind. This was Band Camp, it was going to be hot, and better to have it be in my face than in the faces of the rest of the band facing me.

"Ok, everyone look at the next chart, anyone know what this one is supposed to be?" I asked into the microphone.

Both Kyle and Steve, two of our tuba players and therefore the comic relief of the group, raised their hands immediately.

"Kyle," I acknowledged.

"First of all, I would just like to point out that you look like Hitler up there, lording over the rest of us," he began. I grinned.

"Yeah, except Hitler had a better stache!" Steve shot in.

"Steve, shut up! I'm talking!" Kyle reprimanded. "And this chart is clearly BB-8, so I am assuming this is another one you made and not Mr. Rapson?"

"Yup!" I answered into the mike. "Find this chart and then sit down." Everyone in the band pulled out their binders that were full of diagrams on what our patterns were supposed to look like on the field and went to work finding their spots. This year, I had designed our show. Over the summer, I had made up each formation the band would make on the marching field. I had to make sure it fit with the music, that no one had to walk too far to get to their next spot, that no one would run into each other on the field, and between each formation there was enough movement. It was not an easy task, and it was beyond cool watching what I had thought up come to life on the field before me.

Soon, the band was all seated. "Everyone stand up," I said into the mike, and accompanied by the groans of the band, I climbed down off the ladder and grabbed a piece of yellow rope off of the trailer.

"OOH! I want to help tie someone up!" Steve shouted excitedly.

I switched the mike on again. "We aren't tying anyone up," I explained. "I'm going to stand in the center of the circle holding the rope, and Korynne is going to take the other end of the rope and walk around me in a circle, and if you all line up with her, we'll have made a perfect circle. Everyone got it?"  
We did so, marked everyone's spot on the field with spray paint, practiced marching to it, practiced rotating it, and Mr. Rapson said he had never seen a marching band do such a good circle.


End file.
